


Perspectives~Chapter Four~Part One: Out of Time

by PhoenixDragon



Series: Perspectives [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Gen, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...</p></blockquote>





	Perspectives~Chapter Four~Part One: Out of Time

**  
' **Out of Time** '   
**

  
_Break the tide that's pushing you outside the place you're safe - don't pretend/Mask my eyes, protect my gaze as the light breaks the day - I pray_ **- Declan Flynn and Bryan Wayy**  


_Alistair did love the sound of his own voice._

He would endlessly monologue when he was on a roll and today was no exception. The only major difference between today and yesterday was Dean's utter exhaustion. He just didn't have the mojo, the gumption, the righteousness, the pep and fire that he'd had the day before and the day before that and even the day before that. He intimately knew each piece of his own insides, just as he knew that he would get to know them all again.

And again. And again. And again.

There was no end, no solace, no comfort, no warmth in this den of the lost - there was nothing but the shriek of steel against itself, the muted thud of sharp instruments hitting dull bone and the wet slap of fresh blood against the unforgiving surface that he was nailed to.

So he listened.

He listened (though he knew he shouldn't _) he waited (_ because what else was he to do _) and kept silent (_ there was nothing left to give _). He rode the melodious tones of Alistair's Lessons, the rise and fall of his voice one with the razor held so nimbly in his fingers, the song of them both an endless litany of Pain and Blood - and he had nothing to offer but his silence, his own screams too harsh for his ears._

Even Alistair seemed disappointed with his sudden quiet, knowing it wasn't born of stubbornness, or even new heights of pain. It was built on Nothing, on the hollow ground that was Dean Winchester in chains - and even he recoiled from the deep void that radiated from his favorite victim, withdrawing to his other duties far sooner than he normally would have.

It had only been ten years.

The wounds re-knitted themselves over the long hours (days?weeks?years? _) that Alistair was gone, the only witness to the mending were the deadened eyes of the healed and the endless vacuum of sound that surrounded him. Nothing stirred, nothing raped the mute air with the slightest whisper - and yet, Dean never noticed._

He didn't feel the fresh vitality of his healed body, he didn't hear the lack of screamingrazorbloodrippedfleshcacophonoushowls - all was quiet within and without.

Then -

There was a flash of color, a strike of sound in the quiet gloom of his cell. Something that didn't belong, something that was too fresh, too bright for Hell and all of Its denizens.

Something that reawakened that curl of horror under his skin, that scream of outrage and disgusted offense that was such music to Alistair's twisted, malformed ear, that shiver of pain and guilt that was his constant companion for so very long.

And that something was mere feet away from him, gazing out from under shaggy, honey-brown bangs, its eyes those green-gold puddles of sympathy and ready disappointment - he knew them so well, but he had forgotten their power, the sheer love and heartbreak they could inspire.

He felt...he felt _\- and that wasn't right. Not here (_ not Here _) not in this Place, this dreary prison of torment and unending death._

This had to be a fresh trick, a fresh pain to tease him with. He could feel his heart shred anew, like it was a thousand yesterdays all over again - shatter into millions of pieces under the terrible thought of those eyes holding such disappointment in him, that they could condemn him for his self-imposed (selfish _) solace in Silence and Nothing._

"S-saaammm..." He gasped at the effort his own voice took, his tongue weighted and sluggish under his retreat into the realm of the voiceless and empty.

"Dean," the apparition whispered back - and the world woke back up, pain and heartbreak crashing into his soul, battering against his carefully worked defenses.

This was a dream, a hallucination - Alistair _-_

"He doesn't know I'm here, Dean. No one does - only you..." the ghost said, his eyes filled with love and Samminess and pride. "We're the only ones here - you made it. You found a hiding spot."

Dean sat up, the nails in his hands, feet and torso sliding out with a sickening ease that would have normally left him gagging, if he wasn't so focused on Sam, on his eyes and his gangly frame and his overly large feet and his warmth and solidness and his little boy earnestness. He came and sat down beside his brother, not surprised that they were sitting in Sam's living room in Flagstaff, his dog (Bones _) warm and fuzzy and alive against Dean's bare feet, the carpet an itchy tickle of the worn and threadbare. The springs of the couch were threatening to skewer his ass, but he settled back into them anyway, not wanting to be anywhere else but here, with his brother, waiting for the pizza man to arrive with a hot, fresh pizza pie, loaded with pepperoni, sausage and green peppers (_ and extra cheese _) - just how they both liked it._

He slung an arm around Sam's shoulders, close to weeping with terror and joy at the skinny, too-sharp feel of his brother's frame - his bones too large to be contained by a fourteen year-old body just rushing to catch up. Everything smelled of Sam, too. That soft, sunshiny smell, overlaid with cheap hotel shampoo, Tide laundry soap and that unique scent that just whispered 'Sam'. He soaked it in, taking a few minutes to just be with his brother - to breathe in life and joy and Sam - and Sam (for once _) was content to let him, allowing Dean those few minutes to take in what they had never had a chance to share._

He let his eyes roam around the sparse living room, the overall effect so sunny and gloomy all at once - the perfect reflection of Sam at that age. From the postcards tacked to the walls, the faded brown-gray drapes over the dusty windows, to the beat up out-dated TV with tin foil on its rickety rabbit ears. It was homely and rundown and ragged - but it was also supremely perfect, so down-to-earth, so comforting _that Dean found himself relaxing into the protesting roughness of the couch, his hand reflexively squeezing Sam's shoulder in a show of affection and approval._

"I didn't want to take you away, you know," he whispered, restlessly curling his feet when Bones flopped more of his heavy, doggy self against his legs. "I didn't want to take you away from what made you happy - there was nothing more that I would have liked than to see you happy, see you be you _\- but I...I ruined that, I know. I'm sorry."_

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, shifting in his seat to get that one wayward spring to stop digging into his left ass cheek, the dog at his feet rumbling a soft, whuffly grumble at his sudden movement. Sam was quiet for half a beat, thinking, thinking, always thinking - but his next words were so sweet in that Sammy way, it made Dean's heart ache with how much he missed the boy his brother had been.

"It's okay, Dean. I was kind of glad you showed up - I missed you," Sam confessed, leaning into his shoulder the way he had stopped doing when he had turned sixteen. Dean had missed that, that closeness, but had never dared to voice it.

Dean Winchester (Dad's perfect soldier, Sam's watchdog _) didn't do chick-flick moments, after all._

"I missed you too, buddy. You know, you scared me back then - really bad. But it would have been nice to do this at least once - to just...just sit back, enjoy the day and wait for the pizza guy in this kick-ass trailer you scored."

Sam nodded, mischievous grin surfacing as his eyes shone happiness into Dean's downward gaze.

"Sam and Dean -" his little brother started.

" - and Dean and Sam." he finished, his heart clenching in his chest again, but in a good way - in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Then...

"I saw your soul that day," Sam said. It was sudden, it was startling hearing those words tumble from his brother's lips - so alien and adult from his teenage demeanor. And just like that, grey clouds rolled over and covered the sunshine, a deep chill curdling against the brilliance of the desert heat, electric tingles that precede a storm stirring the fine hairs on his neck and arms, his skin cold with the weight of the clouds outside.

"What?" Strangled (like chains around your neck _)._

"I saw you...I saw your future - and I was afraid," Sam whispered, his voice all conspiracy, as faded as the couch cushions behind him. Dean felt panic resurface when he realized he could actually see those couch cushions through the sharp, scrawny angles of his brother's torso, Sam's visage flickering with the storm building outside the louvred, plexi-glass windows. "I saw the shadows that Dad had made, the shadows that I had made - and it changed...it changed everything _."_

"Sam? Sam _?!" He could hear the thin thrill of fear in his voice, the weight of Sam against his arm no longer as solid, as real as it had been a mere minute ago. His hands and feet ached with the burn of rusted spikes through living flesh and he trembled against the weight of phantom chains. "Wait! We're...we're suppose to just have pizza, kick back and watch a game - Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam -"_

"That never happened, though, Dean. As much as we would have both liked that - that never happened," Sam said colorlessly, looking as tired and worn and faded as Dean himself felt. "I just...I wanted you to know that I saw - that it changed things, a lot of things. And for that I'm sorry...I'm sorry I saw you, I'm sorry that it changed things between us, I tried to not let it, but it just happened _. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for the shadows that I made in you - the shadow that I made you_ be _...what wound you up here - in this Place."_

"No...no _!" Dean gritted, whipping around to grab at the air where his brother was. His gore-encrusted hands closed on nothing and the rage and storm in his heart boomed in the flickering sky outside the trailer - the trailer that was fading, crumbling around them. Bones' warm weight was brittle and he was afraid to look down - afraid of the choices that he'd made, of how they could have changed the fate of even the damned dog's life - his fur too limp and matted to mean anything but death._

He was surrounded by it.

"No, Sammy - that was never your fault! None _of it, do you hear me? I'm sorry you saw that - you should have_ never _seen that - that was_ my _fault!_ Everything _was my fault!" He had to scream over the storm that raged overhead, the clouds black and boiling with fear and horror - Sammy's understanding, soft smile fading into the encroaching gloom of the sky that pressed down on them from above._

Hell was coming back home.

Hell was _Home._

"I knew you saw that - and that...that was my _fault, do you hear me?! I knew - I_ knew _Sammy!" He surged up against the bite of chains, his fear and rage and guilt causing him to twist and writhe against them, bones popping and fraying upon the steady hold of spikes pinning him to his living coffin. "I_ knew _! And I'm sorry - I'm so fucking_ sorry _!_ God _, Sammy,_ please _\- I'm sorry!"_

The last was a shriek shrill enough to rival the metallic twang of Alistair's welcome - his razor singing his flesh back to the here and now, with the almost sweet tone of spraying blood.

"Now, now, " his Master rumbled, his voice that of a rather indulgent, though weary owner of a troublesome pet. "What have we said about language here? You will not use words like the 'G' word - I don't like cursing in my House."

Dean brayed a bubbling half-laugh at that, shoulders jerking involuntarily as the tip of Alistair's blade found sinew and tendon.

" **Fuck** _-"_

"Much better," Alistair hummed, before going back to work, his pleasure at his job evident with every scream of dying nerve and jittering, watery gasp that forced its way out of Dean's throat. "Welcome Home, Dean - we missed you..."

"Ssssaaaammmm..." he moaned, giving in to the screams that slid from his toes to the tip of his tongue.

Lightening flashed behind his eyes and if he squinted against it, if he looked hard enough, he could almost see his brother's face, his soft smile that meant forgiveness.

Sam, I am so sorry... __

But in Hell - in Hell, there is no such thing as Forgiven.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **12:07PM**

The sound of a vehicle's door closing startled him awake, its sound heavy, but too rusty even for his girl so his first thought was ' _Gotta oil her hinges._ ' Even though he had done just that not but two weeks ago, complaining to Sam that he needed to take proper care of her next time she was bequeathed to him. Which Sam blew off without his expected retort of 'what next time?' in favor of needling Dean about using the term 'bequeathed'.

His next thought was ' _Still sounds too light for her door_ ' - then he was fully awake, reality setting in as he blinked in bleary surprise at the smudge on the passenger side window where his cheek had rested, his gaze sweeping the interior of the truck that was too dark colored and care-worn to be his beloved Impala. The bewildering wave of depression that threatened to drag him down was halted by the smell of fresh coffee and Birch's sheepish tone as he started the ancient engine, her protests at being awakened too grinding and thin to be his Chevy. He swiped a hand down his face, pads of his fingers dancing over the cool spot on his cheek where he'd had it jammed against the glass, trying to look as alert as he suddenly felt, his chagrin at having conked out on Birch yet again stilling his tongue before he could fire off a smart ass remark on the comfort of his truck's cab.

It was then he realized that Birch had been speaking when he jolted awake and he shook his head, sitting up straight and reaching blindly for the coffee he knew Twig was holding for him as he yawned his ears open.

"Sorry, Twig - I missed that. What were you saying?"

Birch made sure he had a good grip on his styrofoam cup before he let go, rubbing his fingers absently to soothe the sting left behind by the piping hot beverage. He grinned at Dean, eyes twinkling amusement and apology as he pulled his truck out to merge with traffic, nose heading towards the suburbs where they would find the house.

"Was trying to be quiet so I wouldn't wake you, s'all - seems you were having a pretty nasty dream though, so I guess it was a good thing that her doors are so damned noisy. You okay?"

Dean scrubbed viciously at his eyes and took a tentative sip of the scalding brew, smacking his lips to minimize the burn. He nodded in Twig's direction, appalled that he had fallen asleep in the man's truck _again_ \- once could be a fluke, twice was a bad habit. But then, it seemed that sleeping was all he was good for here of late, though he never slept well - and all that time being unconscious really did nothing to refresh him in the long run.

"Sorry, Twig, I have no idea what's wrong with me here lately, that was just...I'm sorry for being so rude. I'll try to stay awake from here on out." He blew out a breath and took another sip of coffee, the second sip as boiling as the first, but he forced himself to drink it anyway, needing to be alert and ready to go - even if his tongue felt as though it was being skinned alive by the crap gas stations dubbed coffee. You'd think he'd've gotten used to it at this point. He deflected the concern that colored Birch's face, waving towards the road as he spoke.

"So we get it all?"

Birch looked like he was going to comment on Dean's previous statement, but let it slide, falling in line with his 'back to business' attitude - the old man's eyes promised to catch him later about whether or not it was considered too rude to fall asleep when you seemed as worn out as Dean knew he looked - but that was a discussion that would (obviously) be held at another time, after the job was done (hopefully long after).

"Yup, everything on the list. Seems a funny mixture of brick-a-brack to me, but the shopkeeper didn't bat an eyelash." Birch chuckled, popping a wink at him as Dean nabbed the bag from the occult shop, pawing through the contents as he ran a mental inventory. He wanted to make sure the asshole didn't short-change Birch, thinking he could take an old man for a ride to put some extra cash in his pockets. "Actually, he seemed pretty impressed with the list - even gave me a discount for how much I bought."

"Oh?" Dean raised an eyebrow, grin breaking out as he tallied that indeed, it was all there and the notion that Twig had made out like a bandit. It wasn't unheard of for magick and occult shops to give out discounts, but they only did that with customers that they saw on a regular basis or customers that bought in bulk in Dean's experience - and Twig fit neither description. "How much of a discount?"

"Wellah, I told him that I was getting all this for my lovely grand-daughter don'cha know - and if she was impressed, she just might be by to see where I got it from, her being new in town and all. So I probably got a good...mmmm, twenty dollars taken off the tally." He smiled contently at Dean's startled laugh, his glee and awe at Twig's brashness lasting a few moments. Ol' Birch's innocent expression didn't help either, the combination of being tired and highly amused sending him off on another round of laughter, tapering off to the occasional chuckle as they put miles under the old truck's wheels.

"Not bad," Dean gasped out after a minute, ribs aching from his fit of giggles. "Not bad at all, Twig. Have to say - they did give us a good price to begin with when I called them. I have a pretty good idea how high this stuff runs, and your 'grand-daughter' just saved me a pretty penny."

"As far as he knows, you _are_ my grand-daughter," Birch chuckled, then his eyebrows jumped in remembrance as he twisted to reach his wallet with a grunt, tongue tucked into his cheek while he divided his attention between the road and the worn leather in his right back pocket. "Almost forgot..."

"Keep it," Dean grumbled in mock temper. "Use it to buy me a friggin' pony."

"Sure thing, De- _anna_ , honey," Birch soothed and they bickered good-naturedly for another five miles, before Dean reluctantly pulled his mind back to the task at hand, knowing they needed to make at least one more stop before they got to their destination, to prepare for what was ahead of them. Or him, rather, as Birch would be entering that house over his dead body. And with this poltergeist, it just might be the case.

"I think there is a park near the house - we'll need to make a stop there, Birch," he said, leaning down to open his duffle and double check the items inside. He had salt, he had lighter fluid, somehow he had walked away with Dad's journal (he'd have to find a way to remedy that - Sam would need it more than he would) and of course, his Colt 1911 with five iron and two salt rounds and a spare shotgun with ten salt rounds.

"Sure thing, Dean," Birch answered agreeably. "Is it okay to ask why, though?"

Dean huffed a small laugh and leaned back in his seat after kicking the duffle closed once more, the move more instinctive than based on the need to hide the items within.

"Yeah, it's okay - I kind of prefer you did, actually, to tell you the truth. I hate the whole TMI idea and 'don't ask, don't tell'. My Dad operated that way and while it works ordinarily, it really doesn't in this case. But to keep it simple, I'll explain as much as I know about what we're dealing with and my ideas on how I'm going to handle it. For right now - I need us to be in a location where I can put these cleansing bags together without drawing too much attention. A park isn't ideal for that, generally, but at this time of day with our respective ages, we may be mistaken for people who are taking a lunch break from work - so we just might be able to put these things together without anyone being too nosy. Then again, we're gonna need a place to park the truck while I approach the house on foot. That way if anything goes wrong, the neighborhood watch doesn't have your truck's license plate and general description to make your life harder with." He shrugged, leaning in his seat with the machine as Birch made a right turn, his eyes scanning everything beyond the windshield, though he really didn't see what was outside, his mind too busy churning over the job and how he was going to approach it.

"It helps when you've done this a couple of times or more. Though I will say, alot of how I tackle this kind of job depends on the urgency of the job. With this one, the house is empty, the For Sale sign is still up and the realtor probably only visits the place when they have to, which is to say, maybe on a Sunday and only when they've got prospective buyers - which according to Micah, there are none. So while the house needs to be cleansed and the spirit laid to rest, it's not something that needs to be done right _now_ to save more lives - so parking in front of the place in front of god and everybody can be avoided - though that's not always the case. While this set up has it's advantages, there are major disadvantages, too. Because there are no prospective buyers - and I guarantee you the neighbors know it - it means that any strangers lurking around will be seen as suspicious. The best time to go in is during the day, because hardly anyone will be home - at least with this neighborhood as it seems to be mostly made up of newer families and middle class residents - so the majority of them will be at work or shopping. But if there does happen to be anyone around, alarms will be raised much faster because it is the middle of the afternoon, a perfect time for burglary and general B &Es." He paused in his run-down of tactics and reasoning, brain still puzzling over that one detail that would connect the two deaths.

"So basically, walking up is the best idea - but I have to find a quick way in, probably the old fashioned way, that B&E people worry so much about, put the cleansing bags in the four corners of the house before I go to find the object that has triggered Tomkin's outbursts and flambe the damned thing - and hope they disconnected the smoke alarms. Most of the time if a house sits empty for long periods we don't have to worry about alarms and smoke detectors - but occasionally you get that vigilant realty company which can make the job just that much harder. I'm hoping that's not the case here." He paused as they arrived at a little park, the only concession that really called it such was a single row of forlorn looking swing sets, chains rusty, seats worn through.

"There any other disadvantages?" Birch asked lightly.

Dean glanced at him, then waited for the truck to lurch to a halt before gathering his supplies, pulling everything out of the bag and setting it on the seat beside him, flattening the bag itself out to use as a make-shift work surface.

"Yeah, one..." he murmured, fingering the felt cloth that would hold the herbs for each bundle. "I have every bit of intel I could want on this gig, except for one. I have the neighborhood, the type of area it is, whether or not there are owners of this particular house, how many accidents there have been, how many deaths and how long ago. I know that Tomkins himself died four years ago and two other people died about eight months apart, different residents of the house - no outsider deaths, though the accidents happened only to visitors, not to the owners and their families. I know that the last death was over eighteen months ago, which would make one wonder why I am here to take care of an old spook that hasn't kicked up the dickens for almost two years, but that doesn't really matter in the long run. Someone will buy the house eventually, or some kids are gonna break in and play, or in general mess around. The older a poltergeist gets, the more power it can draw on, so the next accident might just be fatal - it's better safe than sorry." He cut off his rambling monologue, mildly embarassed when he realized that he was thinking out loud again, working the case through. It bugged him that this old bastard hadn't been taken care of before the death-toll got so high - or why so much time had passed since the last death and Bobby getting wind of the case. He knew those questions were going to be eating at him awhile, but they really had nothing to do with the case itself. There was only one more detail he didn't have - just one more thing he needed to know before he settled the old guy's hash once and for all.

"I have everything I need, mostly - really more than I need or even get in most cases. Interest and gossip about a four year old death isn't the norm - but Tomkins created quite a sensation before he bit the dust, so I got way more info surrounding him and the house than I usually get. The only info I _don't_ have is where the two victims died, when and how. The records for this area - the most recent anyway, dating over the last ten years - were lost in a fire and it has been taking forever for their computer systems to get organized, which means they probably have the information, but not the means to get it. Normally, I would wait them out a few days, but...I really don't have that luxury for this Hunt." He coughed, waving that last bit off as he sectioned out the herbs by memory, the sudden recollection of Missouri and her house so clear for a moment he could almost smell incense over-laid with coffee and fresh bread. He went on automatic, two pinches of Valerian, one pinch of mugwort as he continued to think out loud, Birch sitting still and quiet, absorbing the information while watching Dean's fingers deftly measure, mix and wrap each sachet.

"I'm thinking that since the old man died in his attic, doing Lord knows what, that might be where the victims met their ends. I really wish that the clerks could remember where the victims were found, but sometimes things like that happen - which is why it is kicked to us, the connections usually so subtle you have to be looking for it. They only intel I have on the victims is that they died at different times, so that leaves us with a small problem in one respect. If he can manifest at any time, he could do it when I'm trying to cleanse the house. But if my gut is right, he's going to wait until I get to the attic. I think that's the connecting point - what each victim had in common. Now I just need to know what they stumbled across that got the old jackass so upset. Usually if a ghost's remains have been cremated, there is an object tying them here - and if he has all the powers and mojo of the 'giest he's behaving like, it's a very powerful item indeed, more than just a lock of hair, or a bracelet or something like that. Something that has more meaning - to him if to no one else. I've got to find that object before he gets to me and burn it - the only hope I have is that he may not be able to manifest until I touch that object. I'm sure many, many people have traipsed in and out of that area without being disturbed." He tied off the third bag, lip pursed in thought.

"The accident victims weren't listed where my friends at city hall could get to them - and the morgue wouldn't carry such information. Police keep records of such things - but once again, that takes way too much time to sift through. I'll bet you dollars to donuts though, that each accident was a construction worker of some type. Sayyy, an electrician, plumber - roofer? Someone who has to have access or the ability to get into hidden caches or hidey holes that this fugly might have stashed something in. I'll probably never know for sure on that score, but since I'm an outsider like the accident victims, I'll have to be just as careful. He may not kill me, but breaking a leg and falling downstairs isn't my idea of a good time, either." He nimbly tied off the last bag, putting all four into his shirt pocket before absently resealing all the ingredients, putting what was left of the magic shop items back in the paper sack, stashing it carefully in his duffle.

"Aren't you forgettin' somethin', Dean?" Birch said when it seemed clear the younger man had finished speaking. Dean frowned, doing a mental inventory before shaking his head, lasering a heavy look at his friend.

"No...no, I don't think so." He hesitated, knowing in some half-assed way what Twig was referring to, but not willing to back down if the farmer tried to budge him. Birch looked at him with those rheumy, knowing eyes and harrumphed a cough, jaw setting in a hard line before tapping once, twice against the steering wheel, cautiously directing his next statement to the run-down, shitty playground outside the Chevy's windshield.

"What will I being doing, Forrester?"

"Hanging out here and being my getaway vehicle, _Collins_ ," Dean retorted, feeling guilty, but still firm on his stance.

"Afraid I might get in the way?"

"No, afraid that you might get _hurt_ ," Dean said bluntly. "Look, hearing about all this is one thing, but actually seeing it -"

"So," Birch interrupted. "Either you are pulling my leg about this ghost crap - which would mean you've wasting my time all afternoon. Or you're concerned about an old man screwing up your job - and thus depriving you of a ride out of here -"

" _Hey_!" Dean snapped, stung.

" _Or_ you are sure that I'll freak out, leavin' you with a civvie raising nine kinds of alarms and then some. So any way it goes, I have to babysit the friggin' truck while you risk your ass on what sounds like a two-man job all by your lonesome!" Twig barked out, waffling between righteous indignation, anger and pride. There was concern in there, too, Dean could feel it - but he'd hoped Birch would have more trust in him and his judgement than this. A little more belief in their friendship (new as it was) - otherwise he should have just exited the goddamned truck forty-five minutes ago.

"Are you finished?" he queried pleasantly, steel coloring his tone. Birch turned his head away, looking mildly sorry and flustered, but with that stubborn, mulish cast that Dean had come to know so well from years of dealing with Sam.

"Alright," Dean continued when it seemed Birch had nothing further to say. "The whole reason I'm going in alone, Birch - well, one of the main ones - is yes, I want to keep you out of harm's way. I've seen some of the best hunters lock up around a poltergeist. They are rarer than actual ghosts and five times more nasty. I just don't want to risk it taking a poke at you because I'm pissing it off. Also, I do need someone to keep an eye out for me - this job gives me a feeling..."

He trailed off, eyes far away for a split moment before refocusing on Birch, his gaze steady, haunted - the green of those eyes vividly deep and old for such a young face.

"Look," he added softly. "I know you've seen things - some crazy, mind-blowing shit during The War, but _nothing_ I say can prepare you for what's in that house. I'm going to have my hands full with that 'geist and if you're there, I'll be wanting to safeguard you - and we could both get hurt from that. I'm sorry...I'm sorry you don't trust me. I'm sorry that you feel I'm leaving you out of this from some weird type of spite or pity - but...even if this job requires another hunter - you can't _be_ that hunter. I don't want you to be - you are too good, too honest to be one of us. I know that makes no sense, but I don't want you to come away from all this with that sadness, that fear that I've seen on too many faces in my lifetime. I just can't do that to you, Birch. I won't."

He covered the quiet by digging the shotgun and salt rounds out of his duffle. He deposited the shells in his pockets, dropping the gun at his feet with a sniff as he zipped the canvas bag closed, retrieving the gun and tilting it across his lap, aware of Birch's eyes following his every move.

"Seems you have an over-inflated sense of responsibility there, Dean," Birch said kindly, his voice quiet so he wouldn't startle the young man with a shotgun across his legs. To Dean's credit, he didn't flinch, but seemed to consider the older man's words with the weight they were due before huffing a humorless laugh, catching his upper lip in his teeth as he quirked his head in Birch's direction, studying him with hooded eyes.

"Yeah? Comes with years of practice Twig," was the flat retort, muscle jumping reflexively in his jaw as he tilted his head away again, aware that his gaze may be making his friend uncomfortable. "Comes with too many near-misses and even more losses than that."

He sighed wearily, leaning on one knee to swipe a heavy hand over his hair then back again to rub at the tense lines of his neck, the headache still a low insistent throb at his temples. Feeling as well as hearing Birch's low, steady intake of air, while he absorbed that little tidbit of information - leaving him free to interpret it any way he saw fit.

"Well, Dean - how exactly do you expect to stop me from following you?" he asked after a moment's reflection, his tone smooth - relaxed even. Dean made a noise of surprise and weary resignation, digging his thumb and forefinger into his eyes before blinking a heavy look at Birch's determined face.

"Don't do this -"

"You're gonna need to get in and out of there fast, son - and if I help with putting them little bags in place it might get it done faster, before it gets time to get riled up."

"Dammit! Birch - " The logic was sound, that was the problem. He shook his head, not wanting to even consider it, but his mind worried at it trying to find a way to make it work, even as a small voice inside whispered that this was a bad idea, beyond a bad idea. There were too many unknowns, to many factors that hadn't been calculated in. That Birch didn't know what he was doing, didn't know what he was walking into, he was an older guy, a little slower on his feet and he didn't even have the basics (silver, salt, Latin, holy water, fire, iron) to protect himself with.

' _Excuses - all excuses. Trick is - how do I stop him from following?_ ' he wondered bitterly.

"Look, I understand that this is dangerous, just from how you're actin' with me wanting to help out. I get that - but young man, it has been a damned long while since I've had a puppy tell me what to do or better yet, what to _not_ do -"

"You said you'd follow my orders, take my lead -" Dean growled.

"That I did, but as I can see you aren't leadin' me anywhere so much as leaving me behind..." Birch returned with a shift of his shoulders, eyes as placid as if he was commenting on the weather or the coffee - not arguing to have his head handed to him by a supernatural nasty.

' _Fuck..._ '

It sucked when logic came at you from all sides. Though Dean's heart told him that he couldn't - _shouldn't_ \- let Birch be dragged into this (or walk in cheerfully blind as the case may be) his gut and head rivaled that feeling of wrongness. Bobby had kicked the case to (what he'd thought at the time) was a two-man team, otherwise Singer would have taken care of it himself, without a word to the Winchesters, unless he needed bailing out of some sort. Rare, but it did happen. Birch's notion of getting all the bags in place faster before Old Man Tomkins could kick up the shit was sound, reasonable and totally what he would do if he had Dad or Sam here. But Dad was dead and Sam...Sam had found a way to kick ass without the good old Winchester know-how - Dean still didn't know how he felt about that, but head, gut and heart agreed that it wasn't his call to make and that Sam seemed to be doing just fine without his older brother there being a fuck-up or cramping his style (however you chose to think of it).

Which left Dean with just himself - or himself and an old man who didn't know shit from shinola when it came to gakking ghosts. On the one hand, showing Birch hunting would change his life forever - would disillusion him and show him that the world was a much scarier place than he had thought all of his seventy-eighty goddamned years on this plane of existence. On the other, it would make Birch feel useful and get him in and out just that much faster. The reasons for him to not come were getting smaller and smaller when stacked up against the crazy of _not_ having him in it. It made Dean feel petty, unreasonable, pigheaded, arrogant - and boxed in.

He hated being boxed in.

He hated this helpless, empty feeling he carried inside him without Sam to back his play. He hated being Dean Winchester and _breathing_ right the fuck now - but it seemed that what it all boiled down to was choice. And his choice was, he had none. There were no options here. It was the smart way - get it done and taken care of (possibly getting an old man either traumatized for life or hospitalized, fun choices there) or risk getting his ass kicked, and either finding Sammy hot on his heels a few hours from now while he cooled his jets in the hospital himself (only to feel more like a useless shit when his brother got there) or limping away from it all, job left undone. Which would make him feel like so much shit afterward - a useless, thoughtless, waste of fucking space. That is if he even _survived_ Tomkins - two people hadn't so far. Never mind they had no idea what they were up against, it was the very fact that they _did_ go head to head with a 'geist and came out zero on the tally.

But then, he could also walk away from it, job done, asses (his own in particular) saved by his own awesome, bad-ass self - while breaking the heart of an old man who would probably feel as useless, feckless and horrible as Dean felt right now.

"Guess I don't have a choice then," he sighed, deflating even as Birch grinned in triumph and joy.

He shook his head and grabbed a canister of salt and his bottle of holy water, handing them over to Birch as he got ready to explain the rules before they made their run. It was not exactly what he wanted to do, but he could make it work - God knows they'd had to deal with their fair share of civvies over the years armed with a lot less knowledge and a hell of a lot more scared.

Still didn't change how very fucking disappointed in himself he was at that moment, even with the mild tingling warmth he got as Twig looked at him like a kid who'd just discovered Christmas. It both buoyed and saddened him, that look - it told him in more ways than one that he was failing, that he was falling while standing up - but he managed to muster up a half-hearted grin for his friend as he went over the supernatural basics.

Still no two ways about it, though - this fucking shit sucked out loud.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _"It is all about preparation - and how much of yourself you are willing to put into your work."_

Alistair was being philosophical today - and Dean didn't know whether to be afraid, or bored. He decided to stick with bored, but was mindful enough to pay attention. Alistair's Lessons could come in handy sometimes. But they could also turn and bite you if you weren't careful enough to listen to them the first time.

"I'm always prepared," Dean drawled, putting just enough boredom in his tone to piss the Inquisitor off, but not enough to make him want to taste blood. He deliberately turned his back to his Master and started gathering his things, the stretch and pull of his muscles under his own will and power, not that of a blade or spell, still something that surprised and gratified him. He had made the right choice - he could feel _it._

Not that there was much of a choice to it at the time.

Alistair nodded his acknowledgement to the truth of Dean's statement, even as he gritted his teeth in frustration at him, not so much for the flippant remark as Dean's turned back, a response in itself. Dean had figure out a long time ago how to straddle that fine line with him and while it irritated Alistair, it also gave him a sense of pride. No one else could take the soul of a Winchester and shape it like he had Dean's, so he tolerated the smart-mouthed responses - at least it was refreshing. No one else in Hell dared to take such tones and airs with the High Inquisitor - but no one chose to question the fact that he allowed it from Dean, either.

He watched as his apprentice went about setting his table, each movement careful and precise, instruments laid out according to size and damage ratio. He flicked Alistair a dark look and leaned in to check the restraints on the Rack, walking around it to make sure every inch of it was pristine and sturdy. Hell had a bad habit of destroying more than souls and even Alistair had come across problems with Rack breakage - not that it had mattered to anyone but him (and well, Dean, if his actions were anything to go by) .

Still, sloppy conditions and disgraceful tools could affect a man's work and his diligence to said work - just wouldn't do.

"That's all you are going to say?" Dean sounded surprised and a little suspicious, which had Alistair chuckling deep inside. That was Dean, alright - get right to it...always impatient that one.

Alistair watched him make one more walk around (occasionally darting a quick glance at his Master), admiring the predatory style and grace of Dean's movements as he let the Boy stew in his own head. Making Winchester nervous nowadays was a rarity - but it was fun to see if he could make it happen.

Not today, though - today, he had other plans in mind.

"No," he replied, inspecting his fingers with concentration (as if they would ever dare to have dirt on them). "But I can wait until you are finished."

"I'm finished now," Dean retorted mildly. "What do you need?"

There was a small splash of blood, high on Dean's cheekbone, the tackiness of it long faded, leaving it a rust-colored splotch streaked dryly across his skin. It had stretched and flaked as Dean talked, the Boy either not noticing the pull of it on his flesh or not caring, but it bothered Alistair that the rest of Dean's face was so pristine - this dot of gore the only thing that marred it.

Decision made, he wetted a thumb and swiped it across the splotch, rubbing at it until it disappeared, his actions not unlike a harried parent who feels the need to make sure their child is presentable. To Dean's credit he didn't flinch, holding perfectly still until Alistair was satisfied the offending stain was gone, knowing if he resisted the Demon would take exception - and usually displayed his displeasure by dispensing Pain. He held his breath until Alistair withdrew his hand, releasing it on a shudder that had his Master quirking an odd knowing smile, abruptly turning to inspect his work area, his next words called over his shoulder.

"I just need a moment of your time, Dean - can you do that?" Silence greeted him as he double-checked the restraints near the bottom of the Rack, noting how Dean had made up for possible wear and tear by double-looping the bindings so they would hold longer.

Impressive - and ingenious. But then, he expected no less, really.

He half-turned, catching Dean's eye with a frown, rolling his hand to indicate Dean could speak. The Boy hesitated, lip curled in a mistrustful snarl, expecting Alistair's presence to lead to a trick of some sort - and while The Inquisitor appreciated that he could keep Dean on his toes like that, he had a full day ahead of him and only so much time that he could spare. He could always make up the time, but he had experiments that just wouldn't keep.

"Sure, Alistair," Dean finally replied, tone still wary. "Is there something you want to talk about? Did I do something wrong?"

Worried now - which was also refreshing. Even when Dean was the one being tortured, his deep-seated need to please, his surety in his own failure made him a fascinating subject to study. How John had over-looked such a treasure as his eldest, Alistair had no idea - but it was better to have such a creature on your side than against you. Even if Dean's willingness to fall in line was reluctant, Alistair never took it for granted - it was a gift freely given.

And he had not been disappointed yet.

Dean's imagination and creativity knew no bounds, his rage-driven torments so unique and insightful - Alistair was anything but bored by it. Each slice, each burn that he inflicted still cut Dean to the quick, his own soul tormented with each each new victim placed upon his Rack (all part of the point) - but fear bred purpose and anger bred ingenuity, both qualities his favorite apprentice had in abundance. Alistair considered himself very lucky indeed.

"No, Dean - nothing wrong. I just wanted to ask some questions, if you would. I think you've got a few minutes more before your next...appointment - and while I have my ever involving experiments, I think I can take a timeout on them, just to speak to you - maybe see how you're doing here," Alistair replied smoothly, taking note of the anxious fidget Dean had acquired during the short silence.

Dean hesitated again, his surprise at the conversational tone and relaxed attitude of the Demon Overlord evident only in the tilt of his head and the tension across his shoulders. His stance and posture bled a relaxed calm that Alistair knew he didn't feel. He knew everything about Dean - had held his very essence in his hands and declared it his, he had torn open his mind and rebuilt it so many times, even he had lost count (though Dean probably had not) so the Boy's deceptive attitude fooled him not one bit. Alistair had thrown him, maybe even scared him - and while that would normally be something he looked upon with righteous glee, that was not the purpose of this visit.

Alistair gave Dean a moment to compose himself by studying the room and the surrounding equipment, pleased at how clean and orderly everything was, every piece of metal polished to a high shine, each blade, each implement painstakingly gone over until it was sturdy and at the best quality for it to function.

"I do like how you keep the place," he mused, turning in a slow circle to take in the overall atmosphere. Dean had definitely made this room his, that was for sure. His soul still stank of righteousness and fire, but the bleak starkness of his surroundings more than made up for it.

"Thank you," Dean replied, unable to keep the pride and pleasure at Alistair's offhand praise out of his tone.

Simple and easy to please, his Boy.

"Just stating a fact, Dean - there is more than one reason you are my favorite pupil," stated in a bored, casual way, but his lips curled in a smile as Dean shuddered, torn between happiness and disgust. If anyone had told him that you could actually make a soul happy in this Realm, Alistair would have told you that you were insane, before showing you physically where the flaw inside your skull must exist. But he had seen flashes of it in Winchester over the last several years, making him feel a wonder he had not been capable of for several thousand. He had a feeling that with Dean at his side, boredom would never be an issue again - and he looked forward to the next turn of the century with a glee that no other soul had ever inspired in him.

Fascinating. __

"So, Dean...you remember when you first came here, right?"

Dean made a small noise of surprise and shuddered again, swallowing thickly as he jerked his head in a short nod, eyes uneasy now at the direction Alistair's conversation was going.

"Yeah- yes...yes, I remember."

"What do you remember exactly?" Alistair asked, fingers wandering over the tray of tools in an absent curiosity, occasionally picking one up to examine it closely before setting it back down again.

Dean's gaze clocked his every move, licking his lips nervously before he replied.

"I...I remember the Hounds coming for me."

"Do you remember why?"

Dean's eyes narrowed, wondering if the question itself was a trick, or a true question, but compelled to answer nonetheless.

"Yes - I sold my soul to bring my brother back." Said with that queer twist of pride, chin tilting in defiance as if he expected to be called foolish or wrong. Actually Alistair thought it was one of the most noble reasons to sell your soul. He wasn't fond of noble, but it suited Dean, so he let that slide, choosing instead to focus on the selfish aspects of that act, an admirable trait in its own right (though one Dean did not have enough of in his personality, more's the pity).

"Ahhh, yes - so you did...and how do you feel about that now?"

Dean lowered his head in challenge, muscle in his jaw twitching as his mouth thinned, the wound still too fresh and sharp to heal. But Hell was not known for its healing - just known for making such hurts fester, though this wound had not yet begun to rot.

"It was the right thing to do," Dean said grimly. "I'd do it again, in a heartbeat."

"Really - even with the full tour you took down here?" Alistair, murmured, bemused. "I'd like to think that's a tribute to my hospitality. Thank you..."

Dean barked a humorless laugh, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension.

"Yeah, you're a fantastic host, Alistair, I have no idea what I'd have done without you guiding my way." The double-meaning clear in his words, the bite of irony soaking through the thin skin of his sentence. He went to open his mouth to say more, but the air shimmered with an electric buzz, the very dimensions of the room shifting as Hell prepared to deposit the next Sinner into Dean's righteous clutches.

It was Alistair's turn to shiver as he mused for a moment on the perfect wielding of a razor, all the effects and uses of an ordinary clamp and he smiled as he saw a mirror of his motion across Dean's shoulders. He longed to stay and watch Dean work - a type of poetry in motion in and of itself, but he had taken too much time already. Things to see, things to do. There was one last question he had to ask - and he sincerely hoped that it wouldn't throw Dean off of his art and the beautiful destruction he could wreak. Though a small part of him that itched to have him under his blade once more (yes, the punishment even for such a simple infraction as distraction/dereliction of duties) hoped that it would do just that, so he could have the excuse to revel in the music of Dean's screams.

Too bad his Boy was a little more steady and reliable than that - though this...would eat at him for awhile. Which was the point and purpose of this visit really, keep him reeling - keep him wondering.

"You did this for Sam, huh?" Alistair intoned, his voice neutral and non-threatening as he leaned into Dean's space, his lips hovering mere centimeters from the delicate shell of his Boy's ear.

A ripple of movement shifted Dean's skin across his bones, his sharp intake of breath at the voicing of his brother's name, barely heard over the crackle of ozone as the fabric of time and space ripped itself apart above their heads, the sound reminiscent of Torment itself.

"Yes," Dean whispered, mashing his lower lip between his teeth to keep in a whimper or a scream as Alistair's hand clamped down on his bicep, squeezing briefly before releasing him, his own whisper thunderous in Dean's ears, even above the cacophony overhead.

"How very admirable, Boy - tell me...how long ago was that?"

"Th-thirty-two years, 5 months, three days, two hours and forty-three minutes ago," Dean gasped out rapidly, his grasp of the exact time stunning Alistair even as it brought a rare smile to his face. Dean's shivering became more violent, though noticeable only to one such as The Inquisitor, Dean's famous iron control masking his disgust and fear at the smile he sensed behind him, able to almost feel the stretch of Alistair's lips across the horror that was his face.

"Good...very good, Dean." Silky, purring - terrifying in its mildness. "As much as I have enjoyed my time with you - and I'm sure the feeling is mutual - there is only one question left. Only one - but I think it may be the most important question of all, though I think I'll let you decide that. I'll even give you time to ponder it, if you'd like."

"Okay," Dean grated, trembling delicately on the weighted string of his own fear. He had passed every test, imagined or no, that Alistair had thrown at him and had come out the other side hardly the worse for wear (stronger in many ways, much to Alistair's chagrin), but the very idea of this simple question seemed to leave him twitchy and afraid. Dean was odd that way - slice him, gut him, burn his insides away and he would remain stoic, silent and unafraid. But tease at that darkness within his own mind, use words to cut and thoughts to destroy and he was helpless before the pain of them.

"Think of it Dean," Alistair breathed, hardly minding as a new, squirming soul was dropped to the Rack, the magic inside the machine quickly binding and gagging the thing until Dean stepped in to take over, almost as if the instrument was aware of the delicacy of this conversation. Dean breathed through the vile twist of his words, hanging onto every syllable, his newest victim not even existing in this moment as he awaited his Master's next whispered torment. Alistair had his full attention - just the way he liked it.

"Think of it...you sold your soul for your brother and you were brought here a mere thirty-two years, five months, three days, two hours and forty-four - forty-five _\- minutes ago, right?" He felt more than saw Dean's nod, his apprentice stilling as he saw the direction they were tilting toward, his next breath a mixture of sob and sigh. "You say you would do it again and I believe you would - but would_ he _?_ You _\- Dean Winchester - sold your soul to the proverbial Devil to save your brother's life - so why isn't he here to do the same? I guess that's the real question, the most important one, really - you are here - but where...is_ Sam _? After all this time, all these long years...where is your brother?"_

There was nothing more to say after that. He was out of time, anyway - there were things to do, experiments to oversee - other seeds of hatred to plant. So as much as he would like to stay, see Dean work, see Dean work through the pain of that tiny, insignificant question - he had to go, attend to his other projects in the making.

So nodding once to himself, Alistair stepped out of Dean's space, only pausing long enough to make sure Dean absorbed the impact his brother's absence made -

And left him to the delicate rage of his work.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...


End file.
